


A Chemical Defect

by TheMidnightOwl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, Johnlock - Freeform, Kissing, Lots of kissing, M/M, Nightmares, Post Reichenbach, Romance, SO FLUFFY, big squishy cuddles, extended, new content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2017-12-13 07:05:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMidnightOwl/pseuds/TheMidnightOwl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John keeps having nightmares of Sherlock's death. Desperate to get to sleep, he makes a call to someone he thinks can help distract him. It's the best kind of distraction he could have hoped for, and the one he was least expecting.  Was supposed to be a one-shot but I couldn't help myself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Chemical Defect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This little gem came to me on another sleepless night. What better way to try and fall asleep than to write about someone else trying to fall asleep? Comments are greatly appreciated.

John awoke in a flurry of limbs as he sat up in his bed, his own scream echoing in his ears.  Blood, so much blood, Sherlock’s dark crimson life fluids painting the unforgiving pavement with which his body had collided at St. Bart’s, adding a sense of macabre to the already gloomy day.  It wasn’t so much that Moriarty had won; it was that John had failed.  Failed to protect him, failed to observe, failed to help.  And then Sherlock died right in front of him.

So much blood.

With trembling hands, the former soldier grabbed his phone on the nightstand.  It took him a minute to manage hitting speed dial.  In addition to his quivering hands, he wanted to know his voice would be steady, too.

“Hello?” Came a familiar voice at the other end.

“S-Sherlock,” John rasped, voice shaking despite his efforts.

“Another one?” Sherlock asked.

John nodded in the dark, aware that Sherlock could not see the action.  Knowing him, he could feel it in the pause.  “It – it was a b-bad one.”

“Which one?” John’s nightmares were usually one of a few reoccurring themes.  Although they formally had consisted of any hellish memory or fantasy from Afghanistan, they were now solely constructed of memories: when he got shot, when Moriarty kidnapped him – usually resulting in a different ending – or Sherlock’s fall three years ago.  They could vary in intensity, but reliving Sherlock’s fake suicide always proved the hardest to recover from.

When the consulting detective came back, John thought the nightmares would cease.  Yet still without fail, they plagued his dreams, resulting in many nights of a shared bed.  It was the only way he could effectively calm down.  Neither of them complained.

“You jumped,” he answered, voice cracking.  On a normal night that would be the extent of the conversation.  Words did little for either of them.  Instead, Sherlock soothed him back to sleep by means of reassuring touches and kisses, a level of intimacy and sentiment present that John never thought the man capable of.  Irene Adler caught Sherlock’s attention once.  John saw plainly that Sherlock had, in whatever way, felt some form of attraction towards her.  But in the end, he ripped her apart.  _“Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side,”_ Mycroft had quoted for him.  He seemed to resent the idea of human attachment.

His first night back in Baker Street, John’s screams resonated so loudly from his room on the above floor that Sherlock had rushed to his aid.  Finding no intruder, he easily deduced a nightmare, and crawled into bed to comfort the disturbed doctor without hesitation.  Not a word was spoken between them, but nothing needed saying.  He caught on to the nightly pattern quickly, and stopped waiting until John awoke in hysterics for permission to enter his bed.  Often times Sherlock would still be awake when John emerged from the throes of the frightening images.  His own sleep patterns had not deviated but he did not want to leave John alone.

But he wasn’t there tonight.  Mycroft had requested his mind alone on something top secret.  John was not permitted to accompany him.  Sherlock stubbornly refused, stating simply that he would not agree to any case without his friend, but Mycroft presented the matter in such an intriguing manner that he agreed.  Just one night, he had said, two at the most.  If one happened, and they both knew one would, John was to call him.  Sherlock didn’t know what he would say – social interactions were not his strong suit – but he would not let John think he had to suffer alone.  He wasn’t leaving him like that, not again.

John did not breathe during Sherlock’s pause.  “Where are you now?”  He asked after three excruciating seconds, “my room or yours?”

He wouldn’t ask how the detective knew his room was a possibility.  “Yours,” he admitted.

“Are you facing the door or the wall opposite?”

“Neither, I –” He panted heavily as his vision turned red.  “I’m not – lying down.”

“Lie down and face away from the door.”  John obeyed, lying on his side, trying to focus on his breathing.  Red still swam in his vision.  When Sherlock next spoke, his voice lost its instructive tone, and the unintentional condescending harshness it sometimes held, even with him.  A velvet baritone spoke to him now in a way that warmed his core.

“Bend your knees a bit and bring your legs up.  Rest your left hand next to your face, palm up.  Your right hand should be by your side palm down but I’m assuming it’s currently holding your phone to your ear.”  John let out a single hysterical huff, and cursed himself inwardly for not maintaining control of his vocal cords.  His eyes still stung with the blood blurring his sight.  “Easy, John,” Sherlock cooed, “now close your eyes.”  He let the silence hang for a moment while John adjusted, heart still fluttering in fear.

“You’ve memorized how I sleep?”  John huffed lightly, voice shaking a little less.  Something like that had to equate to something along the lines of a compliment from the detective.

“This isn’t how you sleep,” Sherlock explained, “This is the position you take when a nightmare wakes you.  The first night I spent with you I positioned us like this.  You’ve replicated it in these situations ever since.  Are your eyes closed?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”  He rested, and then his voice was just a whisper.  “I’m right there, John.  I’m not away with Mycroft helping him solve some political foreign tensions.  He didn’t make up a case he knew would convince me to go with him to a boring-as-all-hell meeting between countries so as to exploit my superior ability to read people.”  John smiled.  “I’m right there next to you, whispering in your ear.

“You’ve just awoken from your dream.  Right now I’ve moved closer, and am partially on top of you to help calm your shaking and whisper in your ear if necessary.  My knees are tucked up into the backs of yours.  My left arm is under your neck.  It fits there so nicely due to how low you’re resting your head on the pillow right now.  You can’t decide if you want to hold onto it or not, so your hand is fidgeting.”

“I do,” John pitched, assisting in painting the picture.  Remarkably, it was working; he could feel the ghost pressure of Sherlock’s knees and thighs against the backs of his legs.  He wanted this to continue. 

“Okay, then, tonight you can make up your mind.  You’re gripping my arm tightly, holding on for dear life.  My right hand is resting on top of yours.  I brush my thumb along it until you reach up to inspect my face.  You cannot simply turn to look because you’re afraid you’ll see that gash in my head and see me drenched in blood.  Whether or not it’s really there you can never be sure with your sight alone because your eyes have betrayed you on more than one occasion, but visual stimuli are what we primarily rely on for information.  You cannot stand the possibility.  No, you opt for touch instead.  You inspect my skin first, then run your fingers through my hair to make sure it’s not matted with blood.  They linger here a bit longer because you enjoy running them through my hair and need something enjoyable.  You brush them along my cheekbones as you put your hand down again; a distinguishing feature, you’re making sure it’s really me after seeing me die in your dream not so long ago.  Perhaps you just like them, too.  I like to think of that gesture as a compliment, personally.

“Now that you’ve reassured yourself it’s me and I’m not injured or a hallucination, you permit yourself to breathe.”  A pause in his flow of thoughts, “breathe, John.”  The soldier released the breath he had been unaware of holding.  The exhale shook, but relieved the sting in his chest.  Sherlock waited until his breathing softened to continue.

“You put your hand down, and I cover it with mine again.  This time I run my fingers in between yours and hold it tightly.  Sometimes you’re still not quite free of the dream, mumbling incoherently in hope of escaping the violent images, but not tonight.   Tonight you’re silent, except for your frantic breathing, which you’re focused on slowing before you begin hyperventilating and thus causing a whole new set of problems.”

He noticed that his tone had flattened again, his pace increasing and sounding more like his usual manner of deduction in order to keep up with his observations.  But this wasn’t for him.  This wasn’t part of a game.  There was no one to show off to.  This was to ensure John did not have a stress-induced anxiety attack while he was not there.  Softening his voice again, he resumed his thoughts.

“I pull myself closer to you.  Seems impossible, given our proximity, but I manage.  My arms tighten around you.”  Another half-second break, “I kiss your cheek.  Softly, at first; admittedly I’m never sure if you’re going to object.  But it helps.  You muscles relax when the contact is there.  So I do it again.  Never too firm, you won’t respond positively to anything too abrasive.  They’re always slow, lingering on your cheek or temple or hair, trying to induce a calm state.  Sometimes your breathing evens out in a few minutes.  Sometimes it takes longer.”  John can actually hear the gears in Sherlock’s brilliant mind turning as he deduces exactly how this night would be playing out had he been there based on context clues John wasn’t even aware he had given.  “Tonight it takes longer.”

The doctor could not believe this tactic was working.  Even more so, he found himself once again completely taken aback by the detective’s unparalleled observation skills.  He himself had never noticed a pattern to Sherlock’s methods of soothing him, but suddenly he was thankful for them.  Every movement and touch Sherlock described in that velvety whisper, he could feel, whether or not he chose to mime them.  The gentle brush of his thumb over his skin, the lacing of their fingers, the tightening of the embrace, and every kiss from impossibly soft lips against his skin, damp from sweating in the night.  Balancing the phone on his face, he rested his right arm by his side as it was meant to be to feel Sherlock’s arm over his as well, accompanying the nonexistent strokes from his nimble digit.  Sherlock had specified where his lips fell against his features, but not how often.  John found himself imagining more comforting brushes from those supple lips than he normally received.

“The more your breathing slows, the less effort it requires to regulate.  Gradually they even out and soften.  The tension in your back, your legs, your chest, your arms, it all resides.  You’re coming down from the unpleasant high.  The more you relax, the more my hold on you slackens.  You whimper in protest – yes I do hear those – but it’s necessary.  Any tension I hold within my own body, yours may begin to reflect again.  So I uncoil with you.  Your arms go slack first, then your legs and feet, your back and neck, and finally your chest, and you can breathe comfortably again.  I often wonder if you’re conscious of the fact that you synchronize your breaths with mine, but never dare to ask in case it is a subconscious move.  Bringing that to your attention could shatter its effect.”

He was aware.  In these moments of desperation of mind, he clung to Sherlock in every way imaginable.  He was dependent on the other man to fall asleep now.  And when he awoke, broken and traumatized, the brunette sleuth was his anchor, his sedative.  For three years the reoccurring image of Sherlock’s death had kept him awake each night, eroding his sanity.  Upon hearing Mycroft’s request the other day, he feared that without his flatmate’s consoling touches, the brutal memories would win.  Sherlock was instead distracting him with more pleasing sensory illusions.

“I slowly lower myself off of you to rest at your side.  The haunting images are fading, releasing their grip on you, so it’s safe for me to cease shielding you.  Probably better, in fact; makes it easier to inhale and relieves that claustrophobia associated with tension.  Apart from that our position remains the same.  My thumb is still brushing yours, and it will continue to do so long after you’ve fallen asleep again.  The touch is feather-light, barely there, but you can still feel it.  Your fingers twitch every now and again in response, trying to will more pressure, perhaps.  I don’t oblige.  Stronger stimulation will keep you from sleeping.  I’m trying to return you to a resting state.”

John was fighting to stay awake now.  Counterproductive to Sherlock’s cause, but he knew that as long as Sherlock could sense that he was awake he’d continue to talk.  He’d let a few hints of his own state of mind during their time spent together slip through his thought stream.  He wanted to hear more of Sherlock’s own personal thoughts.  It was becoming more and more difficult to remain conscious, as he did not open his eyes in fear of no longer feeling the detective’s ghost pressed against his back, stroking his thumb, kissing his hair.  He knew the kissing was supposed to have subsided by now, but this was part fantasy, too. 

“You push closer to me and sigh deeply.  Sometimes that sound makes me wince.  It’s pained and tired and stressed but at the same time it’s reassuring.  You’re going back to sleep.  You mumble my name to yourself –” does he really do that? – “and then you’re asleep again, breathing softly and rhythmically again.  I squeeze your hand gently.  Now it’s my turn to relax.”

John wanted to ask him what he meant by that, but he was too tired to speak.  He felt Sherlock’s chest rising and falling against his back, a template for his own breaths.  For the first time in a very long time he favored the dream over reality, and let it overtake his mind.  Sherlock wasn’t really there, but his voice was real and the scene he described was very real.  So what if the touches he currently felt weren’t technically there.  They had been, and would be again.  That was the promise Sherlock was making him now as he talked him through this night.  With one last imaginary kiss to his hair, John drifted asleep again, not to be plagued by another nightmare this night.

Sherlock smiled to himself as he listened to John’s breaths slow on the other end of the line.  He heard the familiar mumbling of his name, and then his best friend was asleep, his phone still on and pressed to his ear.  He suppressed his chuckle at the thought of John asleep with his phone resting on his face.  If he stayed still all through the night, as he usually did, he’d likely wake up with it in the same position, and perhaps a mark on his face. 

“Goodnight, John,” Sherlock whispered into the phone one last time, and then hung up.  Some nights were best spent with him continuing the motions and whispering in the sleeping man’s ear to ensure he evaded another night terror.  But tonight he would sleep soundly on his own.

_Love is a dangerous disadvantage,_ he had once said.  He did not know if this was love – he had never felt it before – but when John finally settled back to sleep after fits of screaming and crying and sweating, he could not find a reason why this could possibly be a negative thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Please leave any comments!


	2. Prologue (added)

Busy London streets.  People.  Cars.  Sounds.  Lights.  They all whizzed by him as he ran as fast as his trained legs would carry him.  Out in front, a long coat flapped elegantly in the wind, held in motion securely by the shoulders of the brilliant man it rested upon.  Mop of curls bouncing with each stride as they ran from the cops.  Or possibly towards a specific destination.  John could not be sure in that moment with adrenaline flooding his veins.

He remembered Sherlock Holmes.

That first case was one of his most poignant memories.  But that’s all it was now; a memory.  Something to look back upon fondly, before remembering why it was only a thing of the past, and then delving into an incurable depression.  The first few months had been the worst.  As time past, the wounds did not heal, but they scarred over a bit.  Thinking back to those days of watching the detective work, sometimes even helping him piece it all together, irritated the mental scabs.  But he needed to.  He needed to remember.  And then one day he didn’t need to remember.

Because Sherlock was back.

John had been mad at first.  Furious, in fact.  His fist cracked against Sherlock’s pale face, square in the lip.  Then again on one of those impossibly sharp cheekbones.  As much as he wanted to, though, he could not bring himself to do it again when he saw Sherlock’s lip bleeding.  It just reminded him of the man’s broken and battered face, his head split open on the pavement, blood everywhere.  So much blood.  John never wanted to see it again.

Sherlock had let himself get hit.  When John’s fist stopped, and he gazed into his eyes, saw the look of sheer panic on his companion’s face, bordering on mania, he finally spoke.

“It’s okay, John.”  

They left.  Went back to John’s new flat just outside the city.  Sherlock hated it.  Demanded that they go back to Baker Street.  Mrs. Hudson let them in after hugging the detective for a solid minute, crying and thanking every star in the sky that he was alive.  She swatted his arm, of course, but lightly, as the bruises on John’s left hand told her very well where the cuts on his face had come from.  She could verbally abuse him for lying later.  Key in hand, Sherlock took the steps in twos as he usually did, and entered the flat the two used to share for the first time in three years.

Cleaned, packed, and unnaturally spotless; just as John remembered leaving it on the day he told Mrs. Hudson he was moving out.  He took what was his, packed up what wasn’t in case she decided to rent it out to another party, and left.  He hadn’t spoken to her much.  Come to think of it, he hadn’t spoken to really anyone in the past three years.  All of his city friends just reminded him of Sherlock.  

Sherlock sat down on the sofa and gestured for John to sit as well.  He remained standing.  The detective let the issue drop and began divulging the more important matter at hand: the circumstances of his survival.  The suicide was fake.  That was obvious by the man’s presence.  But to hear the tale, to hear how the sleuth avoided death despite genuinely jumping off of the roof of a hospital building… well, it was just so Sherlock.

Because if anyone could pull it off, it was Sherlock Holmes.  

After gaining assurance that the flat was his again if he wanted it, Sherlock asked John to stay.  He wanted to say no.  He wanted to tell the detective that you can’t just let your best friend think you dead for three years and expect everything to be okay when you come back.  He wanted to shout, and reprimand, and scold, and maybe even verbally abuse, just to get Sherlock to cringe, or show some sign of humanity.  Because this was cold.  This was so cold.  

But what came out was “yes.”

Too emotionally drained to go back home for any sleeping clothes, he shed his jumper and trousers, content with sleeping in just his t-shirt and pants for one night.  Tomorrow he could go back to his flat, collect his belongings, and find a way to get out of the lease he had signed.  But that could wait until tomorrow.  After he’d had a night to sleep on the idea that Sherlock was really back and not just a hallucination.

 

_“No, stay exactly where you are.”_

_“Alright, alright-”_

_Reaching.  Reaching out.  But the further he reached the further his friend became.  Reaching back.  A plea, a desperate plea._ Save me.  _Save him.  Just save him, dammit._

_“Keep your eyes fixed on me.  Please, will you do this for me?”_

_Please don’t do this._

_“This phone call, it’s um,”_

_His voice was trembling.  Was it his or Sherlock’s?  Was it both?  Crying.  Genuine tears.  Please don’t cry, Sherlock.  I’m here._

_“It’s my note.”_

_We can still fix this.  Just come down.  Put you’re hand back up.  Reach for me again.  I’ll help you down.  Please, Sherlock.  Whatever you need.  However you know to fix this.  Just let me help you.  Let me in for once so I can help you._

_“That’s what people do don’t they?”_

_Not you.  Don’t you dare.  Just stop it.  Come home.  Sherlock._

_“Leave a note.”_

_Lips trembling.  Definitely his own voice cracking.  “Leave a note when?”_

_Blood.  So much blood.  Where is his pulse?  No, he can’t be dead.  Sherlock Holmes is immortal.  He’s the best of us all.  We were going to have a lifetime together.  He was supposed to beat Moriarty, prove to everyone how brilliant he was._

_“He will outlive God trying to have the last word.”_

_Come back.  Come back to me.  There’s blood everywhere.  Am I bleeding?  No, not my blood.  Sherlock’s.  His hair is matted and face is red.  The pavement is drenched in crimson, concentrated to blackness.  Vision blurring.  Must not cry.  The picture is fuzzy.  Where is his pulse?_

_Red.  Everything is red.  Except for a pair of piercing blue eyes.  But the blood is tainting them, too._

_“Goodbye John.”_

 

Sherlock’s eyes are fixated on his microscope when he hears it.  Quite possibly the most painful and desperate cry, like a wounded animal, and it’s coming from upstairs.  But the voice is a familiar one.  Snapping to full attention, Sherlock pushes himself up and out of his chair, running up the stairs into the room above.  Had someone broken in and hurt John?  They’d regret it.  

The detective burst through the door of John’s bedroom, charged and prepared for an altercation.  But the room was empty, except for the army doctor in the bed, still screaming.  His eyes were closed and his body tensed.  

“John,” Sherlock approached the bed and shook the man’s shoulder, carefully at first, then harsher when he did not wake.  “John, wake up!  Wake up!”

The soldier snapped awake violently, sitting up and inhaling sharply.  His fingers tangled in his sandy hair and clenched down, tightening, tightening, returning him to reality through a stinging sensation.  His lungs labored irregularly; Sherlock did not like the raspy quality of his respiration.  His hand remained on his friend’s shoulder as he gazed at him in concern, not daring to call his attention until it could be risked.  

Finally, when the doctor’s breathing leveled out, Sherlock addressed him again.  “John?”  his friend did not turn to look at him.  “Are you alright?”

“You jumped,” John whispered in horror at the dark shapes below the blanket, “You jumped.  I couldn’t - save you - wasn’t enough to - you - you had no pulse, Sherlock.  There was so much - blood.  Blood everywhere.  Your eyes…” sobs choked off the words that attempted to follow.  Sherlock saw all of the warning signs of a severe anxiety attack threatening to shatter the doctor’s body and mind: chest rising and falling erratically in hyperventilation, tremors in the hands, constricted pupils, frantic heart rate, blood pressure climbing, his pulse visible in his neck, strained and labored breathing.  

Sherlock remembered what anxiety felt like.  It was not something he wished for his friend to experience.  Particularly because of him.  

Sitting on the bed, he kicked his shoes off before pulling the soldier down by his shoulders and swinging his legs onto the bed, slipping them under the blanket for convenience should the other man desire it.  John reflexively bent his knees, and the detective’s fit into the backs of them nicely.  When John attempted to flee, he constricted his arms around the smaller man and pulled him tight, his back pressing against the detective’s firm chest.  One long, slender leg slipped atop his to secure him by the hip.  When breath returned to the smaller man, Sherlock moved his arm to cover John’s, and took his hand, lacing his fingers in between his friend’s, palms both facing down.  He felt John clench his hand to hug them back, his left hand reaching out to grab the arm below his neck.  The tightness of his grip was desperate.  Sherlock felt a strain on his heart.  

His chin rested in the crook of John’s shoulder, trying to comfort him so the sobbing would cease.  They appeared to only worsen.  After a moment of evaluation, Sherlock planted a chaste kiss on John’s neck.  

The soldier froze.

They both sat perfectly still, able to hear their own blood pulsing behind their ears.  When John began breathing again, Sherlock did as well, and he was relieved to discover that the older’s breaths did not sound quite as labored.  He repeated the action once more, freezing up again after.  The second pause was not as long or as tense as the first.  

The third touch of Sherlock’s surprisingly supple lips fell to the back of John’s neck, when his own began to ache.  John relaxed into it, and rolled his shoulder to bring Sherlock closer, seeking out the touch again.  He felt Sherlock’s thumb brushing soothingly along the top of his own, the touch so faint he wondered if it had been occurring for long.  Part of him wanted to ask, but he repressed the desire to, in fear of Sherlock not even being consciously aware of it.  If brought to his attention, he might stop.  He couldn’t stop.  

John was tired.  So terribly tired.  But frightening images kept flashing and dancing behind his eyelids the moment he attempted to close them.  Sherlock’s piercing eyes, glazed over and lifeless, his face drenched in blood.  Blood everywhere.  Crimson horror.  When he opened his eyes again, the dark room was tinted red.  The scream caught in his throat.  

John would relax, and begin to feel as if he were drifting to sleep.  But as soon as the tension left his body, it would return again, with him gasping and sobbing and screaming on occasion, plagued by horrible visions Sherlock could only assume were still of him lying dead in a pool of his own blood.  He would just hold him tighter, not saying a word, only “sssh”ing in his ear at most, before planting another kiss to his sweat-dampened skin.  He wanted to brush the hair out of John’s eyes for him, afraid of them irritating the sensitive organs, but did not dare remove his dominant hand from John’s grasp.  

The night progressed in a vicious cycle of relaxation and relapses for what felt like hours.  Sparing a quick glance at the clock on the nightstand, Sherlock discovered it had been, in fact, two hours since he had first charged into the room.  John felt heavier now; relaxing again.  Except this time, the tension did not return to his muscles a few minutes later.  His breathing slowed further than it had all night.  The stifled sobs gave way to even, shallow breaths.  The fingers desperately clutching the flesh of his left arm, tucked comfortably under the gap between the doctor’s neck and the pillow, loosened slightly.  

John was finally asleep.

With one last kiss to the doctor’s sandy hair, Sherlock allowed himself to relax as well.  

This whole ordeal had been the result of his faked suicide.  Despite knowing clearly now the trick behind it, the falseness of what he had seen, John’s mind was incapable of deleting or replacing the imagery.  For him, Sherlock had well and truly died.  Killed himself right before his eyes.  John’s already fragile psyche had been further damaged by his actions.  And he could blame no one but himself.

But he would do everything in his power to fix the soldier again.


	3. Unreality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter just got a serious update. I changed a good chunk of dialogue around the center because it was bothering me so much. I'm certain you can expect more updates in the future.
> 
> Also, in regards to where this story is headed exactly, I think I should share with all of you what I have ultimately decided. This fic is my own sort of vanity project. The more comments I receive, the more I come back to it, and the more I want to expand it. So the status of this fic will remain "complete" because it was never intended to be expanded upon and I'm going to end each chapter on a note that sounds like a decent resolution. You'll never be left in suspense because I never know when or if I'll end up coming back to it. But people have been responding to it so well and it's probably the only project of mine that I'm really proud of so, while I will not guarantee any more additions, any that you receive will only be if I feel like they're up to the standard of the previous ones. If you really enjoy it I'd check on it every couple of months to make sure you're not missing out on anything, but the status will be kept at "completed," even if I end up adding more chapters.

John rolled his neck in his sleep.  Sherlock glanced at him quickly before returning his gaze to the ceiling, hands together under his chin.  Any movements from the sleeping one usually grabbed his attention.  He wanted to ensure they were not the tosses and turns that indicated a forming nightmare.  He preferred not to let it progress that far if he could prevent it.  John had a specific way of tensing his shoulders when his dreams became unpleasant.  Just an adjustment on his pillow though; he was sound asleep.  It had been a few nights since he had entered REM.  While it was beneficial in the sense that he could not have nightmares without reaching the dreaming state, it also left him groggy and depressed in the morning.  He of course did not act depressed when he thought Sherlock wasn’t looking, but Sherlock was always watching him. 

Two days ago John had thought Sherlock was a hallucination.  It only lasted a moment, and John did not voice it aloud, but Sherlock could see it on his face.  Pupils constricted; sign of fear.  His eyes narrowed; John’s habit when he was processing.  Hesitation to fulfill Sherlock’s request; testing of his own knowledge.  The way John had looked at him, like he shouldn’t be there.  Three seconds.  For three seconds, John had questioned his knowledge of reality, questioned Sherlock’s existence.  He monitored his friend constantly now.  If doubt presented itself again, he would do whatever necessary to keep John grounded.  The doctor had done it so many times for him.  At least three times a day.  He had never cared much for anyone else’s mental stability before, but he cared about John. 

Another shift from his bed partner.  Sherlock threw another glance his way.  No visible pulse in his neck, indicating stable blood pressure.  One breath every three seconds; John’s homeostatic respiration rate during sleep.  His brows were knit, though, and his face tight as it usually became when he was stressed.  Sherlock idly wondered if he should wake him, but he showed no signs of distress.  He continued to watch his friend while he weighed his options.

A tear slipped out from beneath John’s closed eyelashes.  Heavy and thick, it left a glistening trail as gravity rolled it down his cheek and then across his nose.  A tiny wet spot formed on the pillow beneath his face.  An alarm went off in Sherlock’s brilliant mind.

“John,” he called softly.  Another tear threatened to follow the same path, not heavy enough to leave his cheek yet.  “John.”  Gently, Sherlock place his hand on his friend’s shoulder and shook him.

John squeezed his eyes to force himself awake before opening them.  Sherlock let his hand remain where it was. 

“You’re crying.  Why are you crying?”

John stared at him a moment, recovering from the throes of sleep.  “I…”

Sherlock rolled on to his side to face him, hand still on the doctor’s shoulder.  Despite a calm demeanor, tears continued to stream down the soldier’s face.  Sherlock held his unfaltering gaze.  Patience was not one of his virtues, but he often found his capacity for it unlimited when John was the recipient.  He would let John explain in his own time.

Coherent thoughts failed to form on John’s lips.  Single words managed to slip out, but nothing that answered Sherlock’s question.  His eyes looked terrified in the dim lighting provided by the window behind him.  “Why are you crying, John?” he repeated soothingly, volume barely higher than a whisper.

“I… I don’t know…”

Sherlock’s hand moved slowly up to his face.  A brush of a thumb from the violinist’s hand caught the next tear as it fell.  “Yes you do.  Why are you crying, John?”

“...if... you’re real.”

Sherlock tried to keep his composure.  His voice cracked a little as he breathed, “What?”

“I don’t know if you’re really here,” the doctor admitted meekly.

Sherlock’s hand froze, cupping the doctor’s face.  This time it was his turn to not know how to speak.  “...I’m here, John,” He finally managed, “it’s me.  I’m not a hallucination.”

The doctor’s eyes glazed over.  “You jumped off a building.”

“It was a trick.  An awful but necessary magic trick.  I survived.  I told you how I survived.  You remember that, do you not?”  He saw familiarity swimming behind his friend’s eyes as he thought back to their one of their first conversations after the detective’s return to Baker Street.  But then he was gone again.

“You don’t know,” John whispered.  He was retreating in to himself, pressing in to the mattress and burying his face in his pillow.  Sherlock regarded him patiently, until the eye peeking up at him focused again.

“Then tell me,” Sherlock encouraged.  He imagined, like all average minds, that John was about to tell him a story, not just state the facts.  That should have annoyed him.  Were it anyone else, it would have.  Instead the slowness of John’s mind was almost comforting as he tried to console his friend.

“Every night after you jumped, I would have nightmares.  You know the ones.  So I would avoid sleep for as long as I could, but I’m not you, I still had to sleep.  But I didn’t like it.  Everywhere I looked something reminded me of you, and even when I was asleep, I didn’t get any rest from the constant shit I felt.  I almost moved, you know.  I thought maybe if I did I could leave the nightmares behind.  But then I’d hear your sodding voice telling me that that was illogical and absurd and that there was no reason to leave Baker Street because this is a nice flat.  And it is.  But it’s also ours.  And I couldn’t leave that.  It’s all I had.  So I stayed.

“Eighteen months in, I thought I was doing okay.  The nightmares weren’t happening every night, maybe four nights a week, so I was sleeping a little better.  I tried reconnecting with a few people: Sarah, Greg, Molly, I kind of cut them out after you… after you were gone.  It felt odd talking to them.  They reminded me of you, too.  I think Mrs. Hudson was the only one I had exchanged words with in over a year, and only because I had to pay her rent.  Anyway I felt a little better once the nightmares lessened.  I thought I was getting better.  But then one night I had a different dream.  Which was scary in and of itself because for the past year and a half I’d only really had three.

“I dreamt of you, Sherlock.  I dreamt that you were back.  I was so excited, so happy.  As soon as you waltzed in to the flat you told me that you wanted to go to Scotland Yard and see if they had anything to entertain you.  I agreed and we got in a cab.  When we got there, Greg gave me the strangest look.  He asked me what I was doing there.  I just laughed it off and told him that you and I were here to see if he had anything for us.  He…”

John’s breath caught in his throat.  Sherlock smoothed a hand down his shoulder comfortingly.

“…He said he had no idea what I was talking about.  That he had never heard of anyone named Sherlock Holmes.  When I looked to my left where you had walked in with me, you were gone.  There was no record of you anywhere.  I ran back to the flat but it was just my stuff there.  My blog was empty, just a single entry that said “Nothing happens to me.”  You didn’t exist.  You had never existed.  It had all just been my imagination.”

“Surely you recognized upon waking how illogical that would be,” Sherlock offered, his baritone voice barely breaking a whisper, “You met Lestrade through me.  Had I not existed he would not have known you in this dream, either.”

John smiled weakly.  “That’s what I kept telling myself.  But it was so vivid, Sherlock, felt too real.  I had to tell myself that for three weeks before I could finally face him again.  I was afraid that the next time I saw him he would say the exact same thing, that you had never existed.  It took me three weeks to convince myself that it had all really happened.  You had, at one point, been a part of my life.”  Sherlock swore he could hear the doctor mumble “That you were my life,” but he could not make certain.  So he deleted the thought.

“Just when I thought I was okay again,” the doctor continued, “I saw you.”

Sherlock had to stop himself from jolting.  “Saw me?” He echoed, silently hoping that John did not mean what he assumed.

The soldier was retreating further in to himself again.  Nuzzling his face in to the pillow - perhaps trying to wipe away more tears or wipe the memory from his mind altogether.  The sleuth waited stilly for John to meet his eyes again before wordlessly asking him to elaborate.

“I took a shower, and when I got dressed I walked out in to the parlor and there you were.  You were wearing the same coat and scarf you had been wearing that day and your hair was a mess from the wind and your cheeks were flushed like you had been running and you looked up at me with the most pained look on your face I had ever seen.  God, Sherlock, you looked so broken.”  He shuddered.  “You just kept saying “I’m sorry, John, I’m so sorry for doing that to you.  I owe you a thousand apologies.”  My jaw was slacked the whole time.  And then I blinked and you were gone.  I jumped to try to catch you.  I screamed and I fell to the floor.  I ran out into the street trying to look for you.  When I came back inside I don’t remember what I did, really, but when I came to I was on the floor and the flat was a mess.   My head hurt; I think I trashed the place and then passed out.  First a dream that you weren’t real, and then a hallucination that you were.  I didn’t know what to believe anymore.  I… I honestly can’t say I remember the following few months.  I just remember the ache in my chest every time I entered the parlor.”

Sherlock’s chest hurt.  His heart fluttered painfully in its cage at the scene John was describing.  He already blamed himself for the nightmares.  Just when he thought that he had not caused his friend pain in leaving, he learned something new about John’s time without him.  “I’d be lost without my blogger,” he had said.  And he had been.  He never thought his blogger would be just as lost without him.  He had never thought that John would be so adversely affected by his actions.  They were to protect him.  Never had he considered that in his absence John would feel so alone. 

He remembered loneliness.

Sherlock needed to say something, possibly do something, but he did not know what.  “John,” he cooed after a pregnant pause, “you’re a doctor, an army doctor, and no stranger to betrayal from your eyes and your mind.  Nightmares do not feel like the waking world, no matter how vivid they are at the time.  The air is different.  The people feel different, sound different, act different.  Hallucinations are never accurate representations of the images they make you see because they are distorted by perceptions, biases, faded memories.  You knew that image of me was not real because it did not match the photograph you kept of me under your pillow.”  
John’s eyes widened.  “What are you -”

The detective slipped his hand under the pillow, bringing a small photograph into the dim light.  His eyes never left the doctor’s.  “I found it the first night I spent in your room.  This is a photograph from an online magazine, but you had it printed on photo paper as if you took it yourself.  It’s crinkled so it has been under your head as you slept for multiple nights, and faded around the edges, so it has been handled frequently.  You looked at this image after that event because you needed another reminder that I had been real but not in that instance.  Eventually you recognized the differences.  Look at it now, John.  Are there differences?”

John’s eyes flicked back and forth between the image and the man.  “Your hair is longer.”

Sherlock smirked.  “Apart from that.”

“You look scared.”

His smirk faded.  Words caught on his tongue, words he could not form.  _I am,_ he wanted to say, _I’m terrified of what I have put you through and what it has done to you.  I am sorry John, so sincerely sorry, for all the pain I have caused you.  You have given me so much and I let you down without even knowing.  I will do whatever it takes to make it up to you, but I need you to believe me, now.  I need you to know I’m real, John, and I’m never leaving you again._ The thoughts seemed foreign to him, but simultaneously accurate.  What was that strangeness lurking outlining them?

Sentiment.

John searched his face, but his eyes still held doubt.  Pressed for ideas, Sherlock finally decided on a method.  Holding John’s face more intently, he leaned forward and closed the space between their lips.  The chaste kiss stilled the trembling in John’s lower lip, and shocked him into locking his entire body.  Sherlock did not break the contact yet, letting it linger while the doctor’s slower mind registered the action, confirming that the impossible man he harbored not-so-secret affections for was now kissing him. 

When Sherlock’s lips lifted from his, John sought them out again immediately.  He trapped Sherlock in an entirely new kiss, one of sorrow and desperation and shock and desire and overwhelmingly raw vulnerability.  The detective allowed it and kissed him back.  Sentiment was always difficult for him to understand, and while he did not grasp the appeal, he recognized it as the motivation for certain acts. 

John took his face and pulled himself closer to his flatmate.  Sherlock’s hand slid down the doctor’s cheek and around his neck before he tangled his hand in his hair, massaging his scalp comfortingly.  Moisture tickled at his cheek; John was crying again.  “Don’t cry, John,” he mumbled against his wounded friend’s lips in between kisses.  “Everything’s okay.”

The soldier kissed him almost feverishly as he drank down the genius’s offering of security; soaked in his calm presence in an attempt to return to a similar state.  Sherlock engaged him fully, willing to give him whatever he needed to feel better.  He deserved it.  Whatever John Watson wanted from him, he would give; he was his friend and he owed him a thousand apologies and every ounce of himself that the soldier desired.  He had always considered the army doctor the only person in his life that really mattered, the only person in the world who could be perfectly ordinary and yet his equal in so many ways.  He never imagined he could mean so much to the other in a way that caused him such heartbreak once he was no longer a part of his life.  He didn’t want John to hurt anymore.  He didn’t want to be the cause of John’s pain.  So he would give him whatever he needed, do for him whatever he could.

The tiniest flick from a hesitant tongue found Sherlock’s bottom lip.  Another followed soon after.  The action appeared unconscious or unintentional on John’s part, but Sherlock engaged him.  Opening the kiss further, Sherlock licked into his partner’s mouth, inviting him to take whatever he needed.  While he had minimal experience in this field, the logistics were simple enough: stimulation and their appropriate social and biological responses.  Giving your full attention to the other person so as to learn what they like as well as what they don’t like.  When Sherlock put effort into social graces he could master them.  His apparent lack of social understanding was more due to the fact that he did not care to please other people.  But John was worth the effort.  Maybe he was not practiced, but John did not seem to mind.  
Tension in John’s chest.  Sherlock broke the kiss.  “Breathe, John,” he whispered against the doctor’s lips.  He gasped audibly, restoring much-needed oxygen to his lungs.  Sherlock shifted to lie on his back again and pulled John’s head down to rest on his shoulder while he focused on evening out his frantic breaths.  Limbs wrapped around his torso, then a pair of legs became entangled with his own.  John was snuggling in to him.  The effect was interesting: once he got comfortable, the tension in his body dissipated significantly, and his breathing leveled out.  He was falling back to sleep.  Sherlock let his arm rest on the worn soldier, supporting him in a loose sort of half-cradle.  His other hand he tucked behind his own head, unsure of where else to put it. 

“Is this alright?” John mumbled groggily into his shirt.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied softly. 

That fact felt rather irrelevant; even if he were uncomfortable - which, to his own shock, he was not - it seemed likely he would not have dared to protest.  Others would begin to question what that meant in terms of their emotions, what they specifically felt for this other person.  Sherlock did not bother with such trivial labeling.  _John matters._   That’s all he cared to know.  Any attempts to categorize how and why he mattered would just cause a headache and likely cause him to ruin something.  This was their relationship.  It was no less strange to him than borrowing John’s laptop or solving crimes with him.  They spent the nights together now.  And tonight John had needed emotional comfort.  He was just relieved the soldier could find it in someone so emotionally disconnected.

Sherlock impulsively kissed John’s hair.  He received a contented sigh.  The act confused him.  He had not thought about doing that at all.  His body never acted without the permission of his mind.  Sherlock Holmes was always in control of his every thought, word, and action.  Impulsivity was not in any way a part of his persona.  And yet this was not the first time he had acted uncharacteristically in the presence of his only friend.  It was natural, he supposed, for others to encourage behaviors one would not normally indulge in on their own. 

“What are you thinking about?” John asked sleepily.

“You,” Sherlock responded softly.

John snorted.  “Concerned I’m crazy?”

“That would be hypocritical,” Sherlock pointed out.  He felt John chuckle.  “No, I was more concentrating on the behaviors you instill in me.”

“So you’re thinking about you, then.”

“Us,” the detective clarified softly, “I’m thinking about us, John.”

The doctor was quiet again.  “Us…” Sherlock barely heard him mumble.  And then his friend was asleep on his chest, returning to delta wave sleep quicker than usual.  He hoped it would not cause him to slip into a dream state in which he felt he had no control.  Dream science was still immature, but studies suggested a correlation between a feeling of loss of control in one’s waking life to nightmares in their respective dream worlds.  Sherlock had unintentionally distorted the doctor’s perceptions of reality by faking his death.  And John could not simply let go of the image of him dying.  It was destroying him, and thusly destroying Sherlock as well.

_You jump, I jump,_ the expression flickered in his mind.  It tugged at his heart.  Because he had not really jumped.  But John still followed.  The bravery and loyalty of the soldier.  Yes, John was undoubtedly a better man than Sherlock would ever be.  And still, somehow, John viewed Sherlock as the better of the two.  Despite all of the torments the sleuth dragged him through, all of the things he had seen and done since their lives intersected, one factor remained, one that warmed Sherlock to his very core.

John believed in Sherlock Holmes. 

And Sherlock would not disappoint him again.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still not completely happy with this chapter, but it feels a little better now that I changed a few parts. You can expect to see this chapter getting tweaked a lot. Depending on how much I don't like it I may change it significantly or minutely. Any significant changes will be noted in the pre-chapter notes.
> 
> By the way, just because I can't contain myself, there IS another chapter in the works. So this time you can definitely expect an update. Not sure if you can expect a chapter 4, but chapter 3 is well underway.
> 
> Till the next time, everyone.


	4. Balance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I won’t waste much of your time dragging on up here so I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who has stuck with this story so passionately! You all are the reason it has continued and not remained a one-shot as was originally intended. Every additional chapter this gets is because of you guys and I love you all so much. Your comments make my days every single time and because of them I keep coming back to this story and thinking of new fluff. So without further adieu, enjoy :)

The wonderful thing about getting cases was that it kept both of them busy.  John slept deeply and contentedly while they were on a case.  Sherlock did not rest at all.  The detective used to keep John up with him during a case but since he came back, he was more mindful of John’s sleeping habits, something John was silently thankful for.  The best part of the cases was that John did not dream.  He stayed awake with Sherlock until he collapsed from exhaustion, and slept soundly, void of any dreams dancing behind his eyelids. 

Puzzle after puzzle came through the door of 221B for a full three weeks.  John had not seen Sherlock sleep during any of it.  Four back-to-back cases and the doctor could not even make certain that his vampire of a flatmate had shut down for a single second of it.  That was why, when the last one ended and the recently-replaced doorbell had not rung again the next morning, he all but pushed Sherlock down onto his bed and demanded that he get some sleep.  It was the middle of the day but he didn’t care.  The sleep-deprived moron could organize the details of the case in his head after he’d had some rest.  On guard in the sitting room watching the news, John was satisfied that Sherlock still had not emerged from his bedroom yet.  _Good,_ John thought to himself.  The crazy bastard would never admit it, but he did, in fact, need sleep, just like the rest of humanity.

With the distraction of the cases, though, the two of them had not yet had time to properly discuss exactly what had become of their nightly routine.  It was innocent, at first, a concerned best friend making sure that his deeply troubled friend was okay.  John could think of a few people - men and women - he would have done the same for had he discovered that trauma was preventing them from sleeping, if that was what they needed.  But then Sherlock had started kissing his skin on some of those nights, and he had allowed it.  More than allowed it, he enjoyed it, and fell asleep always wanting more.  Three weeks ago Sherlock had kissed him for real.  Not on his neck or in his hair or on his cheek, but on his lips, and John had kissed back almost feverishly.  There was tongue, and beautifully full lips, and it was altogether lovely, one of the best kisses he’d ever received.  He had not felt like that after a kiss in a long time, so warm and happy and safe and _loved._   Even now, as he reflected on it, a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.  But they hadn’t talked about anything.  This was advancing out of platonic territory and further into something… romantic.

Could he ever have that with Sherlock Holmes?  The man was not a sociopath, he knew that much.  He had seen too much of Sherlock’s heart to ever let anyone, even Sherlock himself, convince him that the man did not feel anything.  The detective had an uncanny ability to remain objective in his working life, and that made those around him - who only ever interacted with him while he was on a case - assume that he was heartless.  He solved crimes for the thrill of the chase, and did not allow himself to get wrapped up in the emotional messes that could result from them, but John saw that more as a defense mechanism the more he got to know the sleuth.  Sherlock’s problem was not that he did not care.  Sherlock’s problem was that he cared too much.  But no one had ever let him express that.  So he kept it very carefully hidden. 

He didn’t hide it from John.  John could see that from the start; he was somehow different in the detective’s eyes.  From the very first day they met he took the liberty of explaining himself to the doctor, explaining how his mind worked and what the cases meant to him and opening himself up for John to either accept or reject.  John accepted him every time.  That meant everything to Sherlock, the soldier could see it, spoken or not.  Didn’t that mean, therefore, that John meant everything to him?  Or was John’s admiration of him separate from John himself in Sherlock’s eyes?

That thought caused an unpleasant tugging in his chest.  God, he hoped not.  He’d stopped denying to himself just how deep his own feelings for the brilliant detective ran even before his faked suicide.  Never voiced them of course - though perhaps he should have, maybe it would have made a difference in how Sherlock decided to handle the threat against him - but he at least stopped denying to himself that he saw the sleuth as more than a friend.  What, exactly, he didn’t have to really decide upon before Sherlock left.  But he’d started to give it some thought again. 

That kiss had sealed the deal from him, pun only somewhat intended.  He loved Sherlock Holmes.  In a romantic way or a friendship way, the sort of unbreakable “I could not live without this person in my life” sort of friendship way, he had not decided yet.  He supposed he should not make up his mind on that before he found out exactly where he stood for Sherlock.  Asking the walls of their flat for said information would likely be easier and more promising. 

The doctor’s eyelids felt heavy.  While he had slept more than Sherlock during their three-week frenzy, he had not slept as much as he would have liked to.  He was thoroughly exhausted.  With no day job anymore, he saw no harm in taking a nap in the middle of the day.  So he let his eyes close, the hum of the television across the room reaching only his subconscious mind.  A young man, aged 24, had just committed suicide from the top of a six-story building…

[xxx]

_Blood blood blood everywhere I’m drowning in it what the hell is happening where is Sherlock…_

_“Sherlock?” John calls.  There’s a body, laying limp on the sidewalk.  A young boy has just committed suicide.  Lestrade must have called them.  Was something about it suspicious?  Why was it so hard to walk?  It felt like he was wading through waist-high water as he approached the boy._

_Sherlock is nowhere to be found.  The metallic scent of blood fills the air, thickened with the dampness of the cool London day.  His vision is tainted red.  Something is definitely wrong.  Adrenaline is running through his veins now.  Where the hell was Sherlock?_

_“Sherlock?” he calls again.  Bloody git probably went to go terrorize some witnesses or something.  Rolling his eyes, he crouches next to the boy and turns him over._   
_No.  No.  No no no._

_Bloodied, broken face.  Matted hair tainted crimson.  Ice-blue eyes, raw from crying, staring up at him.  His whole body goes frigid._   Sherlock. 

[xxx]

John started awake from his dream so forcefully that he leapt to his feet.  His scream echoed in his own ears.  Round and round he turned, trying to figure out exactly where he was and what was real.  What did he just see?  Where was Sherlock?  He wasn’t in the room.  Was he still sleeping?  Was he even asleep?  Was he even alive?  
“Sherlock!” John called, his voice cracking.  He reached for his hair, taking fistfuls of the sandy-blond tresses.  Pain tingled at his scalp, but at least it meant he was awake.  _Remember the difference,_ he reminded himself, _dreams feel different than reality.  Remember the difference._

Soft footsteps approached from behind him.  He did not dare to look.  His head spun with the irregularity of his breathing.  Red tainted his vision again.  Cannot not start sobbing, he’s stronger than this…

A firm chest ghosted over his back, radiating warmth.  Nimble fingers cupped his right hand without taking it fully, reassuring but not overcrowding, then guided it back down to his side, out of his hair before he could uproot every last fiber.  The other followed suit hesitantly.  Sherlock was minding his distance, respectful of the delicacy of a frantic mind pushing hysteria.  The doctor was shaking violently.

“Sherlock,” John croaked, “I - I think I should be - seeing - a professional again.”

The detective ducked his chin a little.  “No.”  The word was like velvet against John’s ear, calming him minutely from the inside out.

“This is getting worse.  I wasn’t - couldn’t have been out that long and… I should be seeing someone.  Maybe a sleep psychologist.  This is…”

“No one knows you better than me, John,” the declaration from the taller man was so simple, as if this fact should have quelled all of John’s concerns long ago.  The words flowed so smoothly and gently from his tongue, as if they were a gift. 

Sherlock moved his hands up, placing them gingerly on John’s hips.  His head ducked further, his chin resting on John’s left shoulder with his nose buried in the doctor’s neck, breathing him in.  “Go on.”

John exhaled, closed his eyes.  His right hand darted immediately to rest atop Sherlock’s, as if offended that Sherlock would dare move away.  His left reached up and buried itself in the messy mop of brunette curls tickling against his jaw.  He was gentle in his inspection of Sherlock’s scalp in case he has not yet gotten the opportunity to brush out the thick tangles.  Despite being fully dressed, he was still unsure of how long the detective had been awake.  The thicket of curls felt smooth and untangled, but, more importantly, blessedly dry, and free of blood.  The skull below felt smooth, undamaged.  He ran his fingers through it longer than usual, taking a moment to enjoy the opportunity of getting to play with those luscious, distinctive locks.  Stopping before Sherlock could realize this, he brushed a thumb along one of the taller man’s cheeks on the way down.  The razor-sharp arch of zygomatic bone greeted the pad of his still-trembling finger. 

Soft lips planted a gentle kiss on the skin of his neck.  The motion was repeated a moment later, a little higher up.  John’s hand froze on Sherlock’s face.  Another kiss.  Sherlock nuzzled in to him and inhaled deeply.  The sensation flooded the doctor’s chest with an indescribable warmth, quickly spreading to the rest of his body.  His fingertips tingled with the sudden urge to grab on to Sherlock and never let go.  He leaned his weight back in to his friend unconsciously.  Once he realized it he expected to be pushed away.  To his surprise, the taller man tightened his grip on John’s hips, pulling him further in.  John couldn’t breathe again, but for entirely different reasons.

 _Breathe,_ he reminded himself, _breathe or he’ll break it off._   He focused on regulating his respiration for a moment, trying to remember how the hell to work his lungs with Sherlock acting so uncharacteristically intimate.  All of this in the early hours of the morning shrouded in total darkness in the privacy of John’s bedroom was one thing, but at midday in the parlor of their flat?  That… that had to mean something, surely.  Were John capable of forming coherent thoughts at the moment he may have been able to figure out exactly what.  But he did not want to focus on anything other than what was currently happening.

His hand snaked back in to Sherlock’s hair, who did not seem to mind.  Actually, if John was not mistaken, Sherlock appeared to enjoy it.  More soft kisses were pressed gingerly to the soldier’s skin.  The detective’s mouth lingered upwards as his scalp was massaged by precise fingers, leaving ghosts of contact along John’s throat, then up to his jaw.  One kiss, then two, to the back of the point of the doctor’s jaw, and then those supple lips trailed their way back down John’s throat.  The receptors in his skin tingled at the feather-light touches, craving more as his focus tuned sharply to those singular, fleeting points of contact.  Sherlock pulled him closer by the hips, and John let his head fall back.  A soft sigh escaped his parted lips. 

Still supporting the shorter man’s weight, Sherlock turned his attention away from John’s throat to bury his face in his shoulder again, breathing him in.  His arms fell forward, loosely constricting around his friend in a gentle embrace.  They stayed like that, John’s fingers buried in the luscious curls of Sherlock’s hair, using the calm rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest pressed firmly against his back as a template.  _Inhale, exhale.  Repeat._   Slow and steady, he synchronized his respiration with the taller man.  His right hand lifted to squeeze one of Sherlock’s, as he relaxed further and further in to him.  John was unsure of how much of his own weight he was supporting anymore, but Sherlock voiced no opposition. 

The soldier lost track of the time ticking by.  They could have stood like that for all of two minutes or they could have stood like that for half the day, he could not tell.  Sherlock’s lips grazed his neck again, an air of purpose to the motion.  With one last chaste kiss to the doctor’s pulse point, he slowly disentangles himself from John, rolling forward smoothly to allow John to balance on his own again.  John tried to hide his disappointment, even as he did not fight against the unwanted separation.  Sherlock hesitated, his middle and index finger still weakly holding one of John’s own.  John turned to face him.

Sometimes John liked to imagine little gears present in Sherlock’s verdigris irises as his countenance shifted to one of deep thought.  He could see the wheels turning in the brilliant detective’s head as he examined John; what he was looking for, John could only theorize.  Was he looking for confirmation that John was okay now, that it was safe for him to walk away?  He offered those luminous, roaming eyes a reassuring smile.  He was studied a moment more before a meek half-smile was returned, and then Sherlock turned to regard the clutter on their dining room table.  He rummaged through the scattered glass slides before pinching one in between his fingers and clipping it in to place on the stand, sliding in to his seat simultaneously in one graceful motion.  John’s gaze remained on him for perhaps longer than appropriate, silently admiring the grace with which Sherlock handled himself.

He thought back to the feeling of Sherlock’s lips on his neck only a moment ago, and found his skin tingling with desire to feel those gentle touches again.  But he did not voice it.  Instead, he turned on his heel and made for his armchair, picking up the book that had been tossed there however long ago, opened to the marked page, and tried to just unwind and enjoy the quiet. 

The book could not hold his attention long enough.  Over and over he read the same passage, then the same page, because he could not retain the information.  The thoughts thundering about in his head fought for dominance over the scenes the literature attempted to paint.  With a resigned sigh, he put the book down again and bounded up the steps to his room to retrieve his coat. 

“I’m headed out,” he informed Sherlock from behind the open door leading in to the hall, “need some air.  Anything you need?”

“Milk,” Sherlock responded idly.

“I just bought some,” John commented.

“Used it all on bacteria cultures,” Sherlock explained casually.  He almost sounded bored.

John just shook his head, smiling despite himself, and left.  His eccentric flatmate was constantly using the milk intended for their morning tea to grow bacteria.  He wondered if he should buy two cartons this time and designate one strictly for Sherlock’s experiments, that way he could at least be guaranteed a proper cuppa at regular intervals, instead of gambling on the detective’s sudden urges to grow more bacteria in their kitchen.  A normal person would be alarmed at the idea of their flatmate regularly growing unknown bacteria in the room in which they prepared food - well, where _he_ prepared food; Sherlock still seemed convinced he could gain nourishment from breathing (which he still found boring; how was this man still alive and healthy). 

On his walk, John tried his best to replicate Sherlock’s methods of observation.  When he had screamed, Sherlock had immediately come to his aid.  Sherlock always came when he called.  He barely ever talked, save for the one night when talking was all they had, and always knew what John needed before he himself did.  Even with his prior knowledge, he never denied John anything he might need, no matter what level of intimacy or sentiment it asked of him.  He was willing, that much was sure, but despite everything, John honestly could not tell if Sherlock was doing all of this because John was his friend or because he felt something more for him.  Did Sherlock feel obliged because of what he put John through?  Did he think all of this was his fault and was therefore only doing for John what he thought was needed until it all blew over?  Or did he genuinely care? 

John shuddered and wrapped his arms around himself as he walked.  He dreaded the thought of all of this stopping once the nightmares were gone again.  If it meant keeping Sherlock like this forever, he’d endure the unpleasant dreams every night for the rest of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOOK GUYS SOMEONE DREW THAT SCENE WHERE SHERLOCK AND JOHN ARE ALL OH MY GOD. The wonderful drawing is by the amazingly talented Archia, whom I commissioned to draw the scene with these two dorks hugging because it is my personal favorite scene out of everything I've written, and she did not disappoint. She's absolutely wonderful and if she ever sees this thank you again. If you've never seen any of her stuff and would like to see more you can visit her Tumblr, archiaart.tumblr.com


	5. Mutualism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this update took so long. I hit the worst spot of writer's block in my life towards the end. This chapter is 2,000 words longer than the average of the rest though so hopefully that'll feel like a treat for your patience with me. Thanks again so much for sticking with this! Enjoy :)

Exhaustion came to him a little earlier than usual that night.  Perhaps it was the walk that did it; his midday nap had not lasted more than twenty minutes, but he had walked for hours afterward, trying to come up with answers to the questions buzzing in his skull.  In the end, he had no more answers, but plenty more questions.  Still, he felt a little better after his walk to Regent’s Park, where he ended up staying for a few hours to clear his head.  When the sun retreated behind the city’s buildings, he started on foot back to Baker Street, picking up two separate cartons of milk so Sherlock could have some specifically for his experiments.  When he got back to their flat, Sherlock appeared to not have moved from his spot at the dining room table, attention focused sharply on his microscope.  The rest of the day had passed relatively slowly, and John ascended to his bedroom around 21:00. 

He hesitated before climbing in to bed after changing.  A quick glance at the clock quelled all hope at Sherlock perhaps following him up.  Even if he had no intentions of sleeping that night, Sherlock rarely retired before midnight.  As of late, neither did John, but their unexpected (and much deserved) day off had left him feeling rather sluggish.  Still, the thought of falling asleep before Sherlock joined him and possibly facing a night terror alone was… unnerving. 

He would have been embarrassed if not for the fact that Sherlock was so atypically understanding about the whole ordeal.  The man had never been particularly easy to read, but now, every time John thought he might have an understanding of his limits or the edge of his patience, Sherlock continued to surprise him.  His mind was the ultimate enigma.  John wasn’t as fond of puzzles as Sherlock was, though.  He hated how unsure he was of Sherlock’s take on all of this.  A few months ago, when Sherlock had left on a case with Mycroft, he thought maybe he would finally get the chance to hear Sherlock voice all of those unspoken thoughts, but he had fallen asleep before he could find out.  He was not sure how much longer he could stand the not knowing. 

Unspoken words between the two of them haunted him for three years after Sherlock’s faked suicide; all the words that should have been said that never got a voice.  They deserved to be said.  He had berated himself for weeks on end for not telling Sherlock every day how much he cared, how much he adored him, how he wasn’t alone anymore, and how John wasn’t alone anymore either because of him.  So when he came back, John tried to voice his appreciations more, but those words that should have been said before still had not been spoken. 

_“I was so alone, and I owe you so much.”_

“I owe you so much, Sherlock,” he whispered to himself, feeling his voice hitch.

Hours ticked by.  Determined not to fall asleep, John instead tried organizing his thoughts more.  Sherlock had explained the mind palace technique to him twice - another rarity given how loathe he was to repeat himself - and he wanted to try it.  It helped the sleuth keep objective and in control of his thoughts, no matter how intrusive; maybe it could help John, too.  Sherlock could disappear in to his own head for hours and not recall time passing him by when he re-emerged.  When John glanced at the clock three hours later, though, it certainly felt like three hours, and he didn’t have much to show for it.  Maybe he was doomed to be the slave of his own mind forever.  Sighing, he rubbed his hands over his face.

Just as John’s eyelids began to feel too heavy, the door to his bedroom creaked in indication of another presence.  He picked his head up to see Sherlock glide across the small space, slipping his dressing gown off his shoulders and tossing it across the chair in the corner as he went.  His eyes traced over John as he sat and swung his legs onto the bed.  Once settled with his back against the headboard, pillow pushed up to cushion his spine, he reached for the book he had set on the nightstand.

“What are you reading?” John asked up at him, turning on his side to lay facing him.

“Darwin,” Sherlock answered simply.

“Evolution?” John smiled.  He couldn’t imagine how the theory of evolution would be pertinent to Sherlock’s work. 

“Botany,” Sherlock explained, “He did more than just evolutionary theory.”

John’s lips twitched into a faint smile at Sherlock’s relaxed tone.  It faltered a little when he looked back up at Sherlock, nose still buried in his book.  He picked himself up to support himself on his forearm.  Sherlock was obviously not in a talkative mood, and was trying to be respectful about it by occupying his mind with a book instead of retreating into his mind palace and ignoring John while he tried to fall asleep.  But he also knew Sherlock, and knew that Darwin’s works on botany were of little use to his work.  He was avoiding the conversation he could likely sense John wanted to have, the one that involved unspoken thoughts and drawn-out explanations so John could ease his nerves. 

He swallowed thickly.  That was not how he wanted to continue.  Getting Sherlock back was a damn miracle, but he knew that the next time it would be real.  And if it ended on the same terms that it had the last time, he wouldn’t survive it.  He wouldn’t be able to move on from everything that they were if they parted ways without knowing Sherlock had heard, explicitly, just how much John cared for him.  And if there was one thing he had learned from Sherlock’s faked suicide - or rather, what he was reminded of - it’s that the battlefield takes lives before their time.  The cost of an adventurous life is that sometimes it’s short. 

How to word it, however, just resulted in him tripping over his own tongue.

After two agonizing minutes of deliberation, John finally found the wherewithal to move closer to Sherlock, snuggling in to his side and draping an arm over his stomach.  He felt the detective flinch, but then slide down further on to the bed to support John’s neck a little better.  The army doctor felt a hand rest on his side, and he snuggled closer in to Sherlock’s warmth.  Sherlock’s fingers stroked his cotton-clad back idly.  He felt himself relaxing in to the taller man’s body.  It wasn’t exactly an embrace, but it may as well have been. 

“Sherlock,” he mumbled through the haze of relaxation.  He hummed in attention above John.  “I need to ask you something, and I want you to be honest with me.”  A squeeze from the hand resting near his hip, as if to say _I never lie to you._   Both of them knew that “never” had become “never with one exception,” but both of them generally disregarded it because of its necessity at the time.  He could sense Sherlock was as sensitive about it as he was.  He picked his head up to took his friend in the eye.  Sherlock felt it after a moment and looked away from his book.  Whatever he saw reflected on John’s face caused him to set the book down on the nightstand, pages open so he would not lose his place.  He met John’s eyes again and waited patiently for the soldier to find his words.

The shorter man’s mouth opened and closed many times before he made any noise.  “What… What is all of this to you?”  He flinched; that sounded harsh.  “That’s not what I meant.  I mean, how, why… what’s…”  He sighed in frustration and ducked his head again.

“What’s the thinking for me?” Sherlock offered.  He felt John nod into his shirt.  “You want to know what I think of our nights together because you’re worried that I might just feel obligated to help you due to your nightmares being the direct result of a trauma I inflicted upon you.”  Another nod. 

He exhaled and slumped further down onto the mattress.  One arm remained around John as he took his time forming his own thoughts into words.  “John… I really don’t…”

“I know,” John confirmed, “It’s okay, you can take your time.  But I need to know.”

“Why?”

The doctor shifted uncomfortably, still not looking up.  “I’m not you, Sherlock.  I can’t just read it from the way you crack your neck or whatever if you’re doing this because you feel you have to or because you…” he paused, “… or for other reasons.”  He did not want to put words in Sherlock’s mouth. 

“I really have not given it much thought, John,” he heard Sherlock admit, his voice suddenly very small. 

“We’ve got time,” John encouraged.  He fought not to jump to conclusions based on all the different connotations of that single statement.

The taller man’s chest rose and fell with his sigh.  John just pulled himself in closer.  The detective’s whole aura changed when he was thinking about something with fervor.  There was an almost electric buzz around him as he mulled over everything, and John knew that everything meant _everything;_ every minuscule movement, every decision for or against a touch, every blink, every word spoken and inflection and syllabic emphasis, to reach a conclusion.  He knew Sherlock did not often dwell on or consider his own emotions, so this was a big thing to ask of him. 

The fact that he was considering it so intently was flattering, to say the least.  Whatever Sherlock’s motivations for this, John knew that at least he still had this fact: he was the exception to nearly every one of Sherlock’s usual dismissive personality traits.  He was the exception to everything that the man had even observed of himself; Sherlock was different towards him.  John was the exception.  John was different.  He even dared to venture that he was special.  The thought made him grin like a child.

“I…” Sherlock finally spoke up, “…I don’t have much experience in the definitions of certain emotions.  I don’t know how to categorize them.  They make no sense and differ from person to person.”

“What would you call them?”  John asked, “Ignore what others’ opinions might be.  What are the first words that come to your mind?”

“You’re important to me.”

John skipped a beat.  “Okay… In what way?”

The arm still resting on him held him tighter.  He nestled in to the touch.  “You were…” The heart beneath John’s ear was pounding rapidly.  There was no hiding in this position.  For the first time in a long time, Sherlock felt well and truly exposed. 

At the increase in Sherlock’s heart rate, John better understood just how hard this was for him.  He knew Sherlock had little experience communicating his own emotions, but it had not registered until just now the idea that he might actually be afraid of doing so.

He moved his hand onto the taller man’s stomach next to his own head, where he rubbed Sherlock’s skin through the thin fabric of his night shirt.  He kicked down the thoughts that wanted to dominate his consciousness of how firm the flesh beneath his fingers was, and how curious he suddenly was to see it and touch it without the cotton barrier.

He felt the detective tilt his head up to stare at the ceiling.  To better concentrate or to distance himself from the conversation, he could not be sure.  “You were the first person to not run away.  You were the first one to take an interest in what I can do.  When we first met I expected you to tell me to piss off and take the cab back to your own flat after we got to the crime scene.  I had difficulty processing your comment that it was ‘amazing.’   And every time I expected you to have had enough, you called me brilliant again.  You stuck around.  You didn’t judge or ridicule me.  Social graces are completely lost on me, and yet you never lost your patience with me.  I’d had plenty of people tell me how to act, and it only made me resent them.  You didn’t tell me what to do, you told me why it wouldn’t be taken so well.  Not because you expected anything of me, just because… actually, I don’t really know why.  I only have theories.”

“Because you’re not as much of an arse as everyone thinks you are,” John explained, “You just don’t understand social etiquette, like you said.  And yeah, it is a little confusing at times.  I’m not perfect at it, either.  I don’t think anyone is.  You’re just more out of practice than most.”

“I don’t know what you ever saw in me, John, but I knew after that cab ride that I didn’t want you to ever leave.”

John grinned into Sherlock’s side and nuzzled in to him affectionately.  “I saw that you were hiding as much as I was.  You saw through my limp with one look and I saw through your mask within a day.  I took a little longer than you but I could tell that you weren’t some heartless prick.  The way you were with Mrs. Hudson, I knew that no one who honestly didn’t care could ever have the relationship you have with her.  You were hiding behind a mask of indifference, but it was just an act.”

Sherlock’s lip curled into a half-smile.  “It’s not all an act.”

John chuckled.  “Yeah, I know.  But that’s okay.” 

“It’s never been okay before.  You were the first one that accepted me without any guises.  If what you say is true, you saw straight through me, and stuck around despite my many character faults.  I didn’t consciously choose to let you in at first; you broke in to my mind.  I turned you over and over in my head and could not find a logical reason for you to stay, and it terrified me, because that meant you could up and leave at any time.  You’re kind and normal and confident and likable and sociable and I’m not at all.  But you were interested and I know that with me, if I’m interested in something, I stick with it, so I let you in further.  I don’t have to hide around you, John.”

“No, you don’t,” John confirmed.  His heart fluttered in his chest as a warmth washed over him.  The detective sounded more vulnerable and apprehensive than John had ever heard him. 

“And you didn’t have to hide around me.  Likely because I could read the truth on you anyway, but you wanted someone you could be open with as well.  I could see it on you - you were lonely.  You were a war hero who couldn’t find a place to live.  Not much of an extended family and problems with your sister but if you were really desperate you could still turn to one of them over rooming with a complete stranger, because family doesn’t turn family away.  At least according to Mycroft.  I never know if that’s just him refusing to let off.”

“No, that’s not just him,” John smiled.  “I knew Harry would have let me stay with her if I asked.  I was the problem there, not her.  It’s a bit of an ego-bruiser having to turn to your alcoholic sister for help.  And yeah, after the first time you deduced me I definitely felt opened up.  But I wasn’t scared of it.  It didn’t feel intrusive.  Actually, it felt kind of freeing.  And I knew I could trust you.  So I didn’t fight it.”

Sherlock was silent for a moment.  “I’m… glad.  That you didn’t put up a front, I mean.”

John smiled.  “Like you said, it would hardly have mattered.  Would have likely only served to make us both frustrated.”

Another pause from Sherlock.  “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For putting you in a situation where you did have to turn to your alcoholic sister for assistance.  For leaving you and causing you so much duress.  I never imagined… I never dreamt that…”

“It’s alright.”  John gave him an encouraging squeeze.  Mycroft’s words the day of Sherlock’s fall echoed distantly in his mind.  The elder Holmes brother had said something alarmingly similar when John accused him of feeding information to Moriarty about Sherlock.

Sherlock’s other arm wrapped around John then.  His lips parted in a silent gasp; Sherlock was actually, genuinely hugging him.  “If it were really alright you wouldn’t still be having nightmares about it.”

“I’ll take them if it means I get this,” he breathed before he could think better of it.

Sherlock sat up and pulled John’s head up to look at him.  “What?”

 _Shit_ , John hit himself internally.  He hadn’t meant to say anything until Sherlock had had more time to really think about all of this.  John doubted that if Sherlock discovered he returned John’s feelings he’d have a problem with it.  It was more the vulnerability that came with voicing his emotions that made the normally aloof detective so uncomfortable.  But he wanted Sherlock to be able to approach it objectively. 

Well, no taking it back now.  “I like all of this, a lot.  And if nightmares are the only way I’d be able to keep it, then I wouldn’t mind having one every night.  Because they mean that I get to spend the night with you.” 

Sherlock’s eyes widened marginally, his lips parting in shock.  John cocked his head.  “You really didn’t know that?”

The sleuth cleared his throat.  “I did not know what to think.  Emotions are illogical and messy, John.  You liked me enough to stick with me and I never wanted you to leave.  That was all I cared to know.  Any behaviors you may have exhibited these past few months I interpreted as the shock of having me back and the fear of seeing me dead nearly every night.  You’re not exactly at your most objective when you’re trembling in the aftermath of a nightmare.”

John grinned warmly at him.  “Well your methods of calming me are rather… unorthodox.”

“It’s what you needed,” Sherlock said simply, “I didn’t bother looking in to why.  It’s what you needed and I was comfortable with providing it.”

John’s smile faded.  “So… So it is just because it was what you thought I needed?”

“You did need it,” Sherlock added, “But you needed it from me.  I knew you needed it from me.  And I didn’t want you to be hurting.  You don’t deserve that.  You never deserved that.”  Those verdigris eyes were glossy, like they were fighting back tears.  The memory of leaving him, it seemed, was as painful as the memory of him leaving.

John stilled.  Sherlock was as unsure of his own feelings as John was of them.  And he was apologizing, actually outright apologizing.  Sherlock never apologized for anything, save for that one Christmas so many years ago when he had unintentionally hurt Molly.  And for this, for something he knew had hurt John down to his core, he was apologizing at every opportunity. 

His next words would have to be chosen very carefully.  He needed a solid, straightforward answer from Sherlock, but the wrong words with the wrong inflections might intimidate him and he’d instead change the subject in that way he always did and John would be unable to bring it back.  He had not been this open since that night, and he was so close. 

“You said that I’m important to you.  You’ve said that you don’t have to hide around me.  So you’re comfortable around me.  And you’ve said that I don’t deserve to be in pain.  But why?  What does it matter?”

If John were a teenage girl he would have sworn that Sherlock’s mercurial irises were _swirling_ with how hard he was thinking.  For a long while he simply stared straight in to John’s eyes.  After a while his eyes roamed the rest of John’s body, dissecting every last little nuance of his position in relation to the other man.  He felt almost self-conscious under the full intensity of the detective’s sharp eyes, tearing him open and apart for the answer to a question he was clearly struggling with.  John noted with a lurch of his heart that Sherlock’s breathing had slowed significantly.  It looked as if he had stopped altogether.  Maybe he had.  The evidence of his eyes were the only stimulation that mattered to him right now. 

John did not move, scared of breaking the trance.  Part of him wanted to inform Sherlock that breathing was important to thought processes, but he decided against sarcasm at this particular moment.  He swallowed thickly; if Sherlock had retreated into his mind palace, he might not receive an answer to that question for a while, and he was still very tired.  He considered laying down again and trying to rest while Sherlock puzzled through his own thoughts.  But then the detective’s eyes narrowed, the first move they had made in a few minutes, and John was fully alert again.

Sherlock swept his eyes up John’s body one last time.  His eyes were sharp, sharper than John had ever seen them, but his features relaxed and they lost some of their intensity.  The soldier marveled at how expressive Sherlock could be when there was no one there to judge him for it in the next moments as he finalized his thoughts.  Conclusions, understanding, acceptance, satisfaction, trepidation, all flashed across his face one by one until, at long last, he met John’s eyes.

His demeanor calm but his eyes wrought with vulnerability, Sherlock finally spoke.  “I care about you.”

John stared in to his eyes intently.  Not speaking a word.  Just processing.  The tense silence threatened to shatter the last of Sherlock’s composure.  He had never felt so exposed and John was thinking so _slowly_. 

“You care about me,” John echoed for clarification, offering the words back to Sherlock so he could think them over again.  He barely managed a whisper.

“Yes,” Sherlock’s voice was impossibly smooth for how frightened his eyes looked, how heavy his heart pounded in his chest. 

“In what way?” John begged the question.

That look Sherlock got when someone asked him to repeat himself appeared on his countenance.  John burst in to laughter.  “I’m sorry.  I’m an idiot, remember?  I need things spelled out for me.  I don’t want any uncertainty between us.”

Sherlock’s brows knitted in confusion.  “Was there ever uncertainty?”

“Not really,” John explained, “But there was a lot that remained unspoken between us.  And the more I thought about it while you were gone, the more it bothered me.  You don’t have to hide around me Sherlock, and I don’t want you to, nor do I want to hide from you.  So while we’re talking like this we may as well get it out there.  I’m not saying every day has to be like this - actually I think both of us would go insane if they were - but I don’t want to feel the need to repress it.  Does that make sense?”

“Yes.”

“Good.  So,” John grinned teasingly, “In what way?”

The taller man clenched his jaw.  Blinked.  And then he was leaning forward, slowly, until his forehead was pressed against John’s.  With how close they were, there was no hiding the absolute fear in Sherlock’s eyes.  His focus darted to John’s lips once, twice, but he did not move, just stared, lips parting and pressing shut over and over. 

John detected a slight tremble in Sherlock’s lower lip.  A stiffness had settled into his shoulders and locked his joints.  _God, he’s absolutely frightened of his own emotions,_ John realized.  Comforting a friend at night was one thing, but to really open up, to lay himself out, open and exposed, when the world yelled _“Freak!”_ and _“Sociopath!”_ at him around every twist and turn, had the consulting detective who had stared down the barrel of a gun - and even a sniper or two - who had jumped off the roof of a four-story building and lived, shaking in his skin. 

John had recognized very early on that Sherlock was not a sociopath, but more likely somewhere on the high-functioning side of the autism scale.  His psychology courses during medical school had not been too in-depth, but he recognized most of the symptoms reflected very clearly in his flatmate.  It did not take him long to put them altogether.  Easy to mistake for sociopathy, he assumed, if no one bothered to look properly.  And Sherlock’s off-putting and dismissive attitude to those who even slightly irritated him likely did not help.  But he was not cruel, and certainly not uncaring. John imagined that Sherlock went with the diagnosis of sociopath because it was easier for those around him to swallow and allow him to move on.  Somewhere down the line, he must have fallen for his own lie.  Or worse, decided that emotions were too much of a hassle - or possibly too painful - and repressed them.  All that mattered was the work, and emotions got in the way.

His thoughts strayed to the night beside the pool, where Sherlock’s certainty of that had first been tested. 

_“I will burn the heart out of you,” Moriarty hissed, his lips forming into a thin line.  He looked amused, but almost disappointed somehow._

_“I’ve been reliably informed that I don’t have one,” Sherlock retorted, velvet baritone dripping with cold malice.  His finger twitched on the gun he held, pointed in the center of Moriarty’s forehead, but other than that he did not move.  He looked ready to kill._

_“But we both know that’s not quite true,” Moriarty challenged.  His smile was playful, but it sent a chill down John’s spine.  That declaration could not bode well for Sherlock._

And it hadn’t.  Moriarty had known, had figured out what Sherlock had kept hidden from all around him.  Sherlock could feel.  Sherlock _did_ feel.  And he had targeted John to get to him. 

_Oh._

If Sherlock’s head weren’t currently leaning against his own, John would have slapped himself for not contextualizing that bit of information sooner.  He had assumed he was a target because he was Sherlock’s friend, but if Moriarty were going the friend route he could have more easily kidnapped Molly, seeing as he was dating her at the time, or even Mrs. Hudson or Greg.  But no, he had gone after John, who was a soldier, and had put up a hell of a fight before being subdued by a gun pressed into his temple and demanding that he cooperate.  Jesus, had Sherlock… for that long?

No more than five seconds could have gone by; Sherlock would have applauded him for having all these thoughts relatively quickly.  John refocused his eyes on Sherlock’s, which were still glazed over with fear.

 _It’s okay,_ he offered silently, _It’s all fine.  You don’t have to hide from me Sherlock.  Jesus, you’ve never had to hide.  Just show me._    
Sherlock’s eyes darted minutely back and forth, as if capable of reading John’s thoughts in the patterns of his irises.  And then his eyelids slipped close, and he closed the distance between their lips.

John’s arms wrapped around Sherlock’s shoulders and kissed back before he even registered his movements.  The pressure remained the same, chaste and delicate; John just wanted to be closer.  He stopped breathing, finally understanding why Sherlock so often called it boring.  All that mattered was that contact.  Because it wasn’t in comfort of a terrified friend emerging from the haze of a debilitating dream.  It wasn’t the act of a caretaker or an offer of stability.  It was a confession, an admittance of affection, one which John had wanted to profess since Sherlock had come back, push him against a wall with an arm across his throat and keep him there until he not only heard it, but understood it.  And now those thoughts had been rendered completely pointless.  Sherlock already understood.  Of course he already understood; he was always three steps ahead. 

John captured Sherlock’s lower lip between his own and sucked it gently, trying to help soothe the trembling.  Then he resealed their mouths.  Sherlock’s jaw was locked and stiff, the movement of his lips uncertain and slightly awkward as he adjusted to the sensation of having another’s mouth pressed to his own.  John let him set the pace, but otherwise took control, parting his lips and recapturing Sherlock’s lips between his own through measured pauses.  At least Sherlock was responding positively, leaning in to John’s touch and mirroring the motions of his mouth as he put theory to practice. 

A full minute of light brushes of lips passed before they finally parted.  Sherlock rested his forehead against John’s again, meeting his eyes as he had before.  Exhilaration, amazement, joy, bewilderment, fascination, and razor-sharp attention all resided in those verdigris orbs.  John noted with a bit of pride that the detective’s pupils had dilated, making his luminous eyes slightly darker. 

“Breathe, John,” Sherlock reminded him fondly.

Air he had not been consciously aware of holding was dispelled from John’s lungs.  He sucked in the next breath sharply.  Too sharply; he felt dizzy.  Or had he already been dizzy?  Was he hyperventilating?  _Christ, that’ll feed his ego for a month_ , John thought, and ended up giggling to himself.  Sherlock’s brows knitted in confusion, but quickly relaxed. 

“Alright?”  Sherlock asked after John was breathing normally again.

“Yeah,”  John affirmed.

“Because I know you’re not-”

“Oh, sod it,” John cut him off, “Life’s too short to worry yourself with strict labels and I don’t get laid often enough to be picky.”

The doctor got to see Sherlock’s pupils contract again before he sat up in alarm.  “John,” he stammered, “I… Don’t know if… I…”

“Oh shit,” John sat up straight.  “I wasn’t implying that I want that right now.  God no, I don’t think either of us could handle that.  It’d be too much.”  He held Sherlock’s gaze.  “But that was good, yeah?”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded once.

John smiled.  “Good.  That’s all I needed to know tonight.”

“Does this mean that we’re…?”

“We’re what we’ve always been, Sherlock.  We were the last ones to notice it, but we already sort of behaved like a couple.  We just didn’t sleep together.  Well now we have, and do, in the literal, non-euphemistic sense.  Did it feel bizarre for you to come to bed to me the first time?”

“No.”

“It didn’t feel bizarre for me to let you.  I think that’s because we’ve always been like that around one another, always been that to one another.  We just never acted on it because we weren’t consciously aware of it.  Now we’ve got it figured out, and now I’m not gonna let us backpedal.  So sorry, Sherlock, you’re stuck sharing a bed with me even after my dreams stop being arseholes.”

Sherlock grinned.  “I think you’ll find it is _you_ that is stuck with _me_.”  His eyes roamed over John’s face.  “You’re tired.  You should rest.”

John nodded, then froze up a little bit.  “…Alright if we do it like we did last time?”

“Which way was that?”

Hesitantly, John took Sherlock by the shoulders and guided his head down onto his pillow, then settled himself onto the detective’s firm chest.  Sherlock’s arms wrapped around to cradle him once he got comfortable.  A contented sigh slipped past John’s lips as he rested his hand on Sherlock’s sternum, listening to the frenzied thump of his heart in its cage. 

“You’re heart’s beating a bit fast,” the doctor commented.

“Mmm,” Sherlock hummed, “Hasn’t stopped doing that.”

“When did it start?”

“When we kissed.”

John was helpless to fight the childlike grin that spread across his features.  “You’re not second-guessing, are you?”

“I think I’m… happy.”

John nestled closer to his partner.  “I think I’m happy too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That kiss at the end may be subject to expansion later on. If there's one thing I hate seeing in my own writing it's "time stamps" so my goal is to find a way to get rid of that. But we'll see. Please leave any comments or criticisms! Thanks again so much to everyone who has read this story! It's my own little vanity project so every view means so much!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Just Checking](https://archiveofourown.org/works/822969) by [drekadair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drekadair/pseuds/drekadair)




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